


(there's) magic in our bones

by surely_silly



Series: kidnap me [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11218995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surely_silly/pseuds/surely_silly
Summary: What's one more in the grand scheme of things?





	1. 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> Summer before 2nd Year.

It's just another morning, albeit one where Molly has already cooked breakfast before he woke up, but. Just another morning after a late night, all Arthur’s favorites in steaming plates and bowls across the table, his children already having dug in. Ginny’s his favorite child now, though. The boys would have let him sleep, and awoken to cold food, if any was left at all. Woe is the days Percy was the favorite. Boy couldn't let him sleep in on any day.

“Dad, can you pass the biscuits, Harry wants another.”

And, Arthur nods, intent on the paper, he doesn't even think about. Doesn't wonder who Harry is. He passes the biscuits. “Eat up, Harry,” he says, distracted. “Plenty to go around.”  
  
The basket leaves his hand, and then a moment later there's a barely audible, “ _Thank you_ ,” somewhere past Fred and George heckling Percy, a giggling Ginny. Arthur's not really paying attention, you see, so he gives it a vague acknowledgement, feels slightly accomplished at least one of the kids remember their manners.  
  
He eats his toast and beans, the fluffy eggs and rashers. Drinks the tea, and cleans his plate, puts the paper down when he's asked, “Dad, can we go flying later?” and realizes. Realizes—

 

 

One. Three, four, five… five… six?

 

 

  
“Oh,” he says, blinks. The boy, at the end of the table opposite Ron, hunches his shoulders. Bother, he fits right in, Arthur hadn't even noticed past the red hair. “Wotcher, um, did you say Harry?”  
  
Rons nods, swallows what he was chewing, good lad. “Yeah, this is Harry, we rescued him.”  
  
“We,” Arthur echoes, of no doubt he'll get the full story later, and Fred and George give him two muggle salutes. He ignores the weird phrasing, _rescue_. What would the Boy-Who-Lived need rescuing from? “Does your mother know about this?” _That you brought Harry Potter home?_  
  
The three of them share a look, and Harry shrinks back in his chair, face darkening in discomfort. It's somewhat endearing, Arthur's sees it on every one of his children's faces on a daily basis, Harry’s got a lot more freckles than anyone ever has in either his or Molly’s family, though, and a few good shades browner all around. He waits for an answer, waits. For the Love of M—  
  
Percy sighs, aggrieved. “She does,” he volunteers, tugging at the collar of his night shirt. “Took a run to Madame Josephine's up the way.” He shoots Harry an unreadable look. “For… clothes, and to send a letter since Charlie has yet to send Errol back.”  
  
Fred, or George mumbles something he thinks is, “ _A strongly worded letter_.” Bill, Charlie, and the twins ought to know all about that, shouldn't they. Gotten enough Howlers in their school careers to fill a trunk, but.  
  
_Clothes?_ “Oh well, guess that's all right then,” he says, forcing the worry down. Molly seems to have it all in hand, and the boy looks uncomfortable enough as it is. “Said you wanted to go flying? Well, help clean up, and we'll see. Nice to be having you, Harry.”  
  
Clean up has never gone any smoother or without fuss. Fred and George usually manage to sneak off, but this morning they're right there with Percy spelling everything clean. Ginny and Ron put the leftover food, a rarity, in the kitchen for him to preserve, and Arthur sees Harry try exactly once to help at a point, an awkward figure watching them clean. Ron doesn't let him though, and Arthur can figure the other boy tries to insist, and Ron just. Just gives the shorter boy a small push away, and Harry _crumples_.

 

  
  
“ _Harry!_ ” goes up in a chorus, and Ron drops a plate, the rashers gone rolling.

 

  
“ _I'm… I'm sorry, I'm… I'm sorry_ ,” is what Arthurs hears when he manages to get close enough through Fred and George. Harry’s crying, the tears thick and gummy, the whole works. “ _I'm sorry, don't… don't be mad, p-please._ ”  
  
“What did you rescue him from, exactly?” Arthur demands, and winces when the boy flinches with muffled sob.  
  
“They had _bars_ on his window,” Ron warbles, face gone red and splotchy, hands wringing in his shirt. “They weren't feeding him, and, and _I don't know!_ ”  
  
Arthur’s no Healer, but it takes all that one can to raise seven children, and the healing ward visits can be frequent in a house full of rough and tumblers who love a good and rowdy game of Quidditch. Pulling his wand from his pocket, Arthur flicks it in a slash around Harry.  
  
_Broken rib_. Dear Merlin, _how?_ Ron’d barely even _touched_ him.  
  
“I need you all to back up, we're going to St. Mungos, Percy, floo ahead and hold the connection,” Arthurs says, and braces an arm against Ron’s chest as he makes to step forward, to pull at Harry. “Don't touch him, okay?”  
  
His youngest nods, wide eyes tear rimmed, and backs into the twins and sniffling Ginny.  
  
With a grim determination, Arthur pushes the boy’s legs closer together, and gently arranges his arms. “I'm just going to freeze your body, okay, Harry? Try not to panic when you can't move, and then I'm going to levitate you,” he explains to the crying boy, red hair sticking to his sweat streaked forehead, and his scar a livid burst of white across his flushed face. Harry coughs, but manages a weak nod as he raises his wand. “Okay, here we go, _Petrificus Totalus._ ”  
  
The characteristic binding of the limbs minimized, Harry only breathes out a shallow huff in pain as his limbs bind together. The boy's body paralyzed, Arthur flicks his wand. “ _Wingardium leviosa_.”  
  
Slowly, he levitates Harry, his falling tears beginning to spin in the altered space. “Fred, George, take Ron and Ginny upstairs please.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“No,” he interrupts, and casts them a brief but stern look, “take them upstairs, and only come back down when your Mother gets Home.”  
  
Fred and George have to tug on Ron and Ginny, but they go, shoot worried looks over their shoulders, but by Merlin’s magic they troop upstairs without more fuss. Arthur sighs, and at sniffle, starts forward and out of the kitchen.  
  
“Healer Bak’s come through,” comes Percy’s voice as Arthur navigates Harry past the dining table and chairs.  
  
Their family Healer is in her usual white robes, and wand at rest in her hand as they come into the living room. Bak’s face drains of what little color she has seeing him float the boy in. She beings casting before he can open his mouth, striding forward, lights of all colors flitting from the tip of her wand.  
  
“I've bound him, and he has a broken rib, my youngest barely touched him and he just collapsed when it broke,” he says, and lets her take over the levitation.  
  
“What's the boy’s name?” she asks as she steps back up to the floo, clearly distracted by the bright red hair, but not by the brown skin. Knows he's not theirs, exactly, she would have been one of the first to know if he was, but. “Have you notified his guardians?”  
  
Arthur pauses, hopes he can impress upon her the dire need for discretion. “Harry... Potter,” he answers, and at her sharp look, continues, “I think it best we notify the guardians once he's in a better condition.” _Bars on the window. They're not feeding him._ Merlin’s beard.  
  
Bak purses her lips. “Agreed,” she says, and then steps into the fire with a, “ _St. Mungos, second floor receiving room!_ ”  
  
Once she's gone through with Harry, he turns to Percy. The boy's freckles stand out on his pale face. “It'll be fine, Perce,” Arthur assures him, and gives him a brief hug. “You're in charge til your Mother gets home. Tell her what happened and where we are, okay?”  
  
Percy swallows hard. “Okay, Dad.”  
  
With a steadying breath, Arthur nods. “Good lad, I'll be back when I can,” he says, and then turns to the floo, vanishes into the flames.


	2. 1.2

A restless feeling in his fingers is what wakes him up, a dry mouth.

 

 

 

“— _cannibalizing itself_ —”

 

 

 

 

“ _Ambient magic in the air_ —”

 

 

 

 

Nothing hurts. At least, not like it has been for… for a long while now. More so since… the end of term, really. He'd thought maybe that would have been the end of it, going to Hogwarts. Merlin, that first dinner had been so… embarrassing. Parvati’d been the only one who'd seen but. Harry had thought with all of… that, to eat, three times a day, for a whole eight months, it would have been enough to, to tide him over. But. It wasn't, and everything is a dull ache reminiscent of the past couple of months.

 

“Ow,” he breathes, and shifts. A pinch in his chest stops him, and his already blurred vision muddies further with tears. Ow.  “ _Ow._ ”

 

 

 

“— _term abuse, starvation. Who is taking_ —”

 

 

 

 

“— _very lucky._ ”

 

 

 

Harry sags into the bed, and the tightness unclenches. He moves his right hand, and flexes it before slowly wiping at his tears. Where is he? Last he remembers… remembers thinking it was funny. He understood how Malfoy could mistake him for a Weasley now, he's a little darker than Charlie, though it had been hard to tell exactly in the dark of night. Ron’s dad hadn't even noticed him, and his mum had blinked at him in surprise for a long moment before scolding Ron and the twins.

Off track. He's gone off track. Where… is he?

The room’s pretty tame, given he's sure he's not in a muggle hospital. A landscape scene flutters on the wall across from him, horses racing in and out of it in a loop. Harry flops his head over, spies a chair, and a nightstand. No blur that might be his glasses or wand. It's just him in the room, which means there's no one to answer his questions, no one to… see him.

 “Ow,” he mumbles again, just because.

 It… had been nice. The Burrow, with its unevenness, and patchwork structure. The outgrown sweater emboldened with an F and fuzzy pants even more so than Dudley’s castoffs because, beacuse they’d fit better than anything he's ever had, really. Besides his uniform, anyway. So. What—

“Oh! You're awake already, Mr. Weasley?”

Harry startles, doesn't manage to abort an instinctive shift to roll over, and yelps as the pinhole of pain engulfs his chest in _fire._

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” snaps the same voice, what looks like a wizard in pale blue. Harry’s limbs snap together as dead weight, and he thumps gently back onto the bed. “Please don't move, you have a rib fragment caught up against a lung.”

 

 

 

 

Oh. _Oh, that can't be good, am I going to die?_

 

 

 

 

The man swears, says a spell Harry can't quite hear over the beat and throb in his ears as he tries to _breathe. Oh God, I'm going to die._ Something works his jaw open as he gasps, and a coolness coats his mouth, pools, before he swallows without meaning to.

Harry shivers despite the binding, and. His heart slows, and breathing comes easier, the tension seeping from his body like trapped heat rising. As if magic. Probably… a potion.

“Apologies, laddie,” says the man, brown smudge of a face peering over his own. He flicks his wand in a complicated manner, but all Harry can do is follow a blur. “Shouldn't have told you all that, but please don't move if you can help it, alright? We're just waiting on Healer Mellings to floo in, best at Vanishing bones in problematic places, you see.”

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t, can’t, needs his glasses, y’know? But. Suddenly he feels tired, and Harry blinks slowly, sighs. How did... he get here? Does it… matter…?

 

 

 

 

Sleep takes him, so—... so maybe not.


	3. 1.3

Ron’s fiddling with chocolate frog cards the next time Harry wakes up.

 

 

He blinks bleary eyed at the ceiling for a long moment before he registers that becoming familiar sound of cards being shuffled. Turning his head over, there's Ron. He watches for a few minutes as Ron goes through the the cards, putting them into some kind of order. Dumbledore… Flamel…  Hufflepuff… Scamander… Oddball… Merlin… la Fey. Ron has a much more expansive collection of cards, and sometimes Harry is a little envious. He's already lost most of the ones he managed to collect over the year to the trashbins, after all. Freaks... Freaks aren't allowed fun, not like normal people are, y'know?

 

 

He blinks, squints. “I'll trade you for that Percival Graves,” he croaks, and.

With a yelp, Ron falls forward out of the chair, cards flying everywhere. “H-Harry!” he gasps, scrambling back up. “You're awake!”

Harry manages a small smile. It's nice to have friends, though it would be nice to have his glasses. “Y-Yeah, what… what happened?”

Face flushing, Ron looks away. “I'm sorry,” he blurts, hands balling into the sheets of the bed. “It was my fault, I pushed you, and…”

“I don't think pushing me would get me in the hospital,” Harry says, then pauses. Well, not like Dudley or Uncle Vernon haven't tried.

Ron scrunches up his face. “Still… I'm, I'm sorry, mate.”

“I forgive you, if that helps,” Harry says, and tries for something like a grin. “What doesn't kill me only makes me stronger, right?”

At Ron’s alarmed look, he maybe regrets his choice of words.

But, that's how Mrs. and Mr. Weasley find them. Harry talking about anything and everything ‘muggle’ to Ron’s fascination, from sayings to tellys to cars and maths. It's a good talk, not many people know he is… raised by muggles, and while sometimes it's good to have a laugh with Dean, most wizards are snotty prats about it. So. It's a good talk, and Ron is really into it. They're pondering aeroplanes when someone gasps, and they both jerk to attention.

“Mum!” Ron exclaims as Mrs. Weasley bundles up next to him.

“Ronald, be a dear and go with your father, won't you?” she says, and it brokers no argument. With a frown, Ron looks between the three of them, dearly looks like he wants to protest, but nods and disappears out of the room with Mr. Weasley after a long moment of hesitation. Harry watches him go, a little apprehensive, and startles when her hands find his. Mrs. Weasley looks at him like no one… ever has. “How are you feeling, Harry?”

He roots a little deeper into the bed. “'M okay,” he mumbles, and wiggles his fingers in hers. Warm. “Sorry to be a bother.”

Her face hardens, just a little, and Harry swallows, tenses, but. Then it softens again. “You're no such thing, you hear?” she chides, and looks like she might want to cry.  “You're no such thing.”

His face warms, and Harry clears his throat. _You're no such thing._ “Why… Why am I here?”

Mrs. Weasley’s hands tighten briefly around his. “Well, one of your ribs broke, but it's been Vanished and it's growing back just fine, but you're going to be on quite the potion regimen after this, “ she says, and Harry makes a face. Potions are about as gross as regular medicine. “But, Harry, I need you to be honest with me, okay? Like I will be with you.”

 _And the other shoe drops._ “About what?” he asks, and he can feel his heart beat a little faster.

“About why your rib broke so easily… your magic has been eating on itself and your body for a while, it looks like,” she says, pauses, “to... to keep you alive, but living in the muggle area you do, it was in overdrive and overcompensating. The healers can see you haven't eaten well, if ever, except in the last year.”

 

 

Oh. _Oh, no._

 

 

“And, coming over to the Burrow, it relaxed to your detriment, and we're just lucky you didn't break anything else when you fell, or contracted Dragonpox somehow. So, please tell me… have your guardians not been feeding you?”

Tears well in his eyes, and his chest hurts again, but. It's a different pain, and Harry shudders on the next inhale. _They know._

 _"_ Please don't make me tell you _,”_ he begs, and a sob rattles at the back of his throat. They'll… They'll send him away, to an orphanage, and he won't get to see Ron or Hermione or Parvati or Dean ever again. He'll be alone, _again._ If… If they even believe him, and that'd almost be worse, he thinks, just a smidge hysterical. The beating that would be waiting for him—

“Harry? Harry, dear, it's okay, you don't have to talk about it now, I'm sorry—” her hands leave his, and Harry sobs harder. “— _Healer! I need a Healer!_ ”

What happens next is familiar, except he's sat up. His jaw opens without his say, and something cool spills into his mouth. Harry swallows it, and.

 

 

_Breathe._

 

 

Harry gags, and coughs so hard his lungs _burn._ A hand smooths along his back as he seems to cough for _forever_. He shivers when the last of the itch to cough fades. Drained, he flops backwards, and blinks dazed at the ceiling.

 

 

 

 

  
“Please don't make me tell,” he whispers into the din, and balls his hands into fists. “ _Please."_


	4. 1.4

Molly hasn't been so furious and stricken to the bone since the day her brothers were killed.

It consumes her, and her magic roils just under her skin in response, itching for a fight, _anything._ Who could hurt such a sweet child like Harry? His body is _starving,_ with too many to count old hairline fractures, and stiff knuckle joints from who knows what. _Damaged skin from overexposure,_ calloused and scarred hands. And his channels, sore and bloated from magic not his own, run raw in an attempt by his Magic to rest over the past school year. The list just goes on, and on, and it _infuriates_ her.

 

But.

 

There's nothing more to do but wait, so she sends Arthur and Ron home, and the helpless feeling drowning her heart drives her back to the market by the Burrow. The clothes will hopefully be done by now, since it's been nearly three days, and maybe, just maybe, she'll have gotten a letter back. It's all she can do not to storm the Ministry and raise an unneeded and dangerous fuss.

It's dark out, when she steps from inside the floo point. The streets are empty as usual, the muggles having drifted back to their homes with the encroaching darkness, a leftover fear and habit from the First War. St. Catchpole's Plaza is a simple place, a floo point, the market, Madame Josephine's, and Mickey’s Broom shop. Molly takes a moment in the middle of the square to just, just breathe.

 

 

 

 _What a mess_.

 

 

 

Madame Josephine's is still open, and the darling girl looks to be in deep conversation with Lovegood, much to her much needed amusement. If Molly remembers right, he has a girl to start this Fall.

Richie comes up to her in Josephine’s stead, the older woman’s arms full with fabric and more trailing in the air after her. “Molly, so good to see you,” she greets, and motions with her arms. “Come this way, I'll help you with whatever it is you need, Josie’s got her hands full with a late uniform order."

From what she knows of the man, that sounds about right. “I'm here to pick up a wizardly clothes order, causal and formal in fashion,” she says, and pulls out her coin pouch with only the barest of hesitation. “Even if they're not done, I'd like to pay now.”

Richie drops the fabric across a table, where it begins to sort itself by color. “Yes, I do believe that one is almost done, jumper and trousers pair left, shouldn't take but maybe twenty more minutes.”

Good, enough time to check the community owls, and if need be, send another letter. “I'll step out and be right back then,” Molly says, digging into the pouch. “Three galleons, twenty-eight sickles, and four knuts, right?

“Right,” the other woman agrees, and takes the money into a fold of her apron. “Just come to me when you come back.”

Molly nods, and with a small wave to Josephine pulling dark fabrics from the back, she sets out for the owls with a whispered _lumos_.

The owl is back, thankfully, but it turns baleful eyes on her as she approaches, much to her confusion. Molly’s only a bit away when it fluffs up to the annoyance of the owl next to it, and _hisses._ That stops her dead in her tracks, and concerned, she raises her wand to see it better. Well. She doesn't think she'd be very welcoming either when the reason she'd be missing a good chunk of feathers along her breast comes waltzing up.

 

 

“ _Merlin_ ,” she whispers, and a dreadful feeling overtakes her.

 

 

 

_Harry._


	5. 1.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #blood, slight #gore?

_Wake up._

 

 

_Wake up._

 

 

I don't want to…

 

 

_Wake. Up._

 

 

Five more—

 

 

_WAKE UP._

 

 

Harry blinks awake, everything hazy and sleep blurry. Warm. The blankets are warm. He yawns with a jaw cracking stretch, and he makes a blind reach for his glasses.

 

“Get up,” commands a voice, and.

 

 

_Get up, you're tired of lying in that bed. Get up, stretch. Get up._

 

 

Slowly, Harry sits up, still dazed, cotton soft. He is tired of being in the bed, he really is. The room isn't as dark as it was when he went to asleep, a few of the spelled lights on, and there’s a healer bustling around the room. He makes to call out, but.

 

He can't.

 

 

_Get up, and come along._

 

 

There's another person in the room, red robes ill-fitting and cut differently than Healer Mellings’, features sallow in the gloom, sharp and harried. He reaches toward Harry, ragged nails and bitten skin brushing the hair from his forehead. The man frowns, but Harry blinks, realizes.

 

Realizes he doesn't know him.

 

 

_Get up, and come along. It's time to go home._

 

 

 _Home._ That word sends a trickle of fear up his spine, and the clouds part, just a little. Merlin, they pulled siding off the outside and window. Uncle Vernon fell into the _bushes._ Not to mention the anger built up thanks to, to that house elf, Dobby? It'd been funny on the way out, but now—

 

 _Play along,_ whispers a niggling feeling, not quite words, but a hot and comforting tickle. _Play along._

 

“Okay,” he says, and turns, feet slipping free of the blankets, a little more awake. The cool air chases away the too friendly warmth, and when he looks over, the healer is just. Standing there, a vacant but content expression on their face, a lumpy bag hanging limp from a hand. Harry reaches for his wand hidden under the blanket, heart beginning to race.

 

 

 

 

_Something’s wrong._

 

 

 

 

Everything washes cold, the hair on the back of his neck rising, and before Harry can react, he's being hauled up and out of the bed with a growl. _Merlin!_ His feet hit the floor with a jarring thud, but his knees buckle and the man grunts as Harry drags him down.

“ _Diffindo!_ ” he yelps, fear ugly and suffocating, and flings his left arm.

 

 

The spell’s like an inverted light, reverses the surrounding colors, blares a soft pink, and.

 

 

A choked scream splits the air, and Harry's dropped. He spills to the floor as the man stumbles back, hand gripping his other arm, and a spurt of blood catches Harry across the face. Bile itches at the back of his throat, and he gasps as he scrambles up, switches hands. Oh God, _oh God._

“ _You fucking mongrel!_ ” the man howls, his wand falling to the floor. Harry swallows hard against rising nausea as the skin of the man’s arm flaps against what might be bone, his robe sleeve gone entirely.

 _Think, think, think!_ “ _Flipendo!_ ” he cries, throws his arm, and the man is knocked over with a scream.

Heart pounding, Harry blinks yellow spots from his eyes and climbs over the bed. He nearly falls to the floor on the other side, but before he can something grabs hold of his ankle and _yanks._ He scrabbles for purchase against the blanket, but the cloth slips between his fingers and his wand goes tumbling away. He's jerked upside down in time to see the real healer blink at him in confusion.

 

“ _Y_ _ou'll wish you were dead when I'm done with you,”_ snarls the man just as Harry screams, “ _Help me!_ ”

 

 

 

_Somebody, help me!_

 

 

 

“ _Stupefy!_ ” rings out, and Harry nearly dissolves into tears when he's dropped. The air rushes out of his lungs like a popped balloon, and there's a muffled _thud_ behind him. _Mrs. Weasley._ “ _Incarcerous!”_

 

 

The sound of rushing footsteps drowns out whatever Mrs. Weasley says next, and a group of red push in behind her, trailed by a few in white. “Are you okay?” she demands, bundling him up into a tight embrace. Pain lances up his right arm, and he must make a strange noise because she loosens her hold. “What— _Harry?_ ”

Harry shakes his head, lip caught between his teeth, heart racing. Merlin, his arm is _killing_ him. The wizards in red fill the room, and two healers have to tug Molly away from him, her fingers catching in his hospital robe. He shivers as she’s bustled to the side, out of reach, and a healer settles in front of him.

“I'm going to stretch out your arm, okay?” she says, her robes light tan. Harry nods, shaiky, and winces as she carefully levers it from his side, pulls the sleeve back. An absolutely livid bruise mares his arm, and he can feel the throb to it now, like an extra heartbeat, hot and painful. _Merlin it hurts._  “Did the attacker do this?”

 

 

“Y-Yeah,” Harry whimpers, and. He feels stretched to the seams—

 

 

A wizard yelps as he leans over the side of the bed and throws up, heaves up the dinner they'd given him what seems so long ago. _Ugh._ It takes an age before his body gives up the ghost, and he's sat back up, trembling, the nausea dissipating. The other healer in pure white spells away the sick just in time for the attacker to be floated past. It's a man Harry couldn't place if he tried, features gaunt and twisted in anger, in pain, and he looks away. Blood is dripping quick and thick from between the ropes—

 

 

 

 

 _Quirrel crumbles beneath his fingers, falls to pieces and ashes, screaming, screaming, screaming_ —

 

 

 

 

Pins and needles engulf his arm, and it brings him back to the here and now. A knobby and short wand touches the crook of his elbow, and the bruise fades from the red and blue to yellow and green, and then shrinks, is gone. Harry swallows, and the screaming that rings in his ears fade with the pain, but not entirely, just to a whisper. Suddenly, he's dizzy, and lists to the side for a second before being pushed back upright, another healer catching him.

_Did I kill that man too?_

“The bone is bruised, and the muscles will be weak for at least a few days, but that's all I can do until Healer Mellings returns,” the woman says, and the other healer nods. “Let's move you to another room, Mister Weasley. Think you can walk?”

Harry's not sure of anything, not even his own name apparently. “I don't know,” he admits, and then Mrs. Weasley is back, the _clunk_ of something heavy and uneven his only warning.

“ _Alright, alright, where's the boy at?_ ” demands a voice, and the man that turns the corner—

 _Ah,_ Harry thinks, sluggish. The man's kinda short, thin yellow hair and a glaringly pale white, and walks with a lurch, but his eye. It swivels like a marble, and stares right at Harry, and he palms weakly at his chest.

“This way, trainee,” he barks over his shoulder, and limps into the room. The Healers shy back, but Mrs. Weasley stands fast next to the bed.

“Is this really the time, Moody?” she hisses. “He hasn't even been moved to a clean room.”

‘Moody’ takes stock of the room as another figure stumbles in behind him. “Trauma's good for the soul,” he says, and while those around Harry frown and make noises of disapproval, that startles a laugh out of him, just a smidge hysterical. Moody’s attention snaps back to him, and the man smirks. “See? The lad gets it.”

Harry droops with exhaustion, that laugh taking the last of his strength. “Can... I wash my face?” he asks, not even sure he's capable of that but. But the blood is starting to itch, and his fingers _burn._

Mrs. Weasley turns to look, and presses a hand to her lips in clear horror. “Of course, dear,” she says, and shoots Moody a dirty look. “Think the poor boy can get that much? Or are you in such a hurry to cover this all up, hm?”

The unknown woman winces, and then elbows Moody. “C’mon, not like he's gonna run or nothing, is he?” she says, and her hair unravels to a bright green. “Let him get settled in a new room.”

“More like get his story straight,” Moody grumbles, and turns to the nearest Healer, the one in tan. “You tell me where he is as soon as he's all cleaned up, understand?”

The healer nods, grimaces. “Of course, Auror Moody.”

There isn't another single room, though, and while Harry knows he doesn't have the right to complain, it's uncomfortable to be lead in front of a man propped up in his bed to the empty one in the back of the room. The man watches them go past, skin green with yellow stripes, and Harry tries to hunch his shoulders and stay on Mrs. Weasley’s left side. He's only just sat on the bed, curtain pulled forward on its hooks when Healer Pak enters with a cloth and pan. She purses her lips at the sight of him, and Harry looks away.

“You've had a few days of it, haven't you, Mr. Potter?” she says, sighs, and it's not quite a joke.

Harry goes to shrug, and pauses. Wait. “A few days?” he echoes, and looks at Mrs. Weasley as she accepts the pan for him. _Few days?_ Didn't he come in this morning?

The healer shares a look with Mrs. Weasley, who doesn't say anything except to press the wet cloth into his hand. “You were in a magically induced coma for about two days, and it is technically a full third day into your stay now, being past midnight,” the healer explains, eyes searching.

Oh. “ _Oh,_ ” Harry says, and he doesn't really have much to say to that. He presses the cloth to his face, closes his eyes, and _scrubs._

_A few days. Merlin._


	6. 1.6

By the time this mess is about half sorted, they get to catch up with the kid.

Clearly the Weasley Matriarch hears them coming because before Moody can barge through the curtain, she's already there with a severe and quite dangerous look to her eyes. Tonks stalls a couple feet away, unwilling to be within scolding range, though her boss could care less.

“He's sleeping,” she hisses, “so be quiet it about it.”

Moody makes a disgruntled noise, but it's not like they can't get a statement from the boy later. “We need to see his wand,” he says in turn, “if the Prophet gets wind of who he really is, need all Ts crossed, Molly.”

Tonks frowns, confused, but holds her peace as they're let within the curtain. It hurts just a little to see how small the kid is in the bed, engulfed with a rather alarming pile of blankets. Exhaustion lines his face, and she misses it when the wand is handed over, distracted by the branching white that now covers a good portion of his forehead and brow.

 

 _Oh. “_ Clever,” she muses aloud, soft.

 

“Seems it's all in order,” Moody says, and she turns. He hands the wand back to Mrs. Weasley. “We'll be in touch.”

“Actually… I have something I'd like you to look into, if you—”

She falters as blue slips into the room, a flutter of sparkling feathers. The kestrel makes one loop around the room on near silent wings before alighting on Tonks’ shoulder.

Tonks grimaces. “I'll take this outside,” she says, and at their nods, steps out.

The Patronus doesn't speak until she's in the hallway, beak pressing closer to her ear. “ _The Prophet got a tip on the attack. Reporters are swarming the lobby. Don't be seen leaving the kid's room, and work faster or they'll hear about Vannaseng before we're ready,_ ” it whispers, and then with a soft fizz, disperses into glitter and mist.

 

“ _Merlin's balls_ ,” she mumbles, and looks up and down the hall. Tonks checks around the corners just to be safe, and they're clear, for now.

 

Moody comes out before she can go back in, though, a grim look to his face. “We good?” he asks, and she tilts a hand, _eh_. “Figured as much. Anyway, let's go, night's far from over.”

Tonks falls into step. “Oh?” she says, because he'd promised to cut her loose after they caught up with the kid. _Harry Potter._ “What's changed?”

He doesn't say a word as they make for the floo points two hallway blocks over, and Tonks is of barely contained curiousity by the time they get in line behind a wizarding family in various shades of green. It's not long before they're flooing down to the morgue, the sterile hallway dim and cold. Tonks shivers, and falters a step behind Moody as he stalks forward, every line in his body suddenly bristling with anger. They're almost at the other end of the hall when he stops, abruptly and disturbingly still.

Moody grunts, magical eye spinning round to look at her from the side. “We might have another case,” is all he says, but it's enough.

 

Then they're through the doors.

 

What greets them is an even colder room, metal and clean, and two wizards, one in a light grey and the other in a blue so dark Tonks thinks it's black until the woman shifts, tilting her wand over the clothed body before her, and the lights above flash her robes blue. 

“What have we learned?” snaps Moody, and the healer in grey jumps, hand flying to his chest. “Well, Keller?”

Blue robes sighs, and drops her wand hand. “Vannaseng did not die quick,” ‘Keller’ says, and that twists Tonks insides a little bit. Jensen’d only been one year her junior. “An unusual paralytic poison caused an allergic reaction, and his throat closed up. He suffocated.”

 

 

 

 

_Alone in that linen closet, unable to call out for help until a healer slipped in his piss, but by then it was too late—_

 

 

 

 

“And Weismann?” Moody demands.

Keller gives a tired look to the other body a few feet away. There's blood congealing on the floor underneath it's table. “Our blood purist wasn't so pure of blood after all,” she drawls, but makes no move to go over. “Somewhere along that outrageously inbred pedigree, someone gave him vemon sacs.”

“Like a snake?” Tonks blurts, and she. She honestly doesn't know.

Keller nods, and reaches beneath the white cloth to lift Vannaseng's right hand. There, between the thumb and index finger, is a bite mark, a curve of humam teeth breaking skin. Tonks swallows thickly as the woman presses at the nail of one of his fingers. It's a deathly shade of blue.

“That, or there was a vampire somewhere along the line, or even something else,” she says, and gently places his hand back. “The venom caused Vannaseng’s death by suffocation, and Weismann bled out from a severed artery.”

Moody stomps with his wooden leg. “Good riddance,” he growls, and the healer in grey makes an affronted noise. “What? You think he should have been saved?” He turns on the other man, eyes him. “He almost kidnapped a child, and killed a kid barely out of school. He got what was coming to him.”

The healer flaps his hands, does some complicated motion, face irritated, but no words escape from his pursed lips.

“Hah! He would have had a cell in Azkaban, no doubt about it, but that'd have been too good for him, no, this is _exactly_ what that monster deserved,” Moody sneers, and the healer gives him an exasperated look.

Tonks blinks between them, confused, and Keller gives her an amused smile. “Healer Pepperwater is mute,” she says, “and Auror Moody understands enough Sign language to translate.”

Ah. Moody's more faceted than she thought. “Thanks,” she says, sheepish, and offers a hand. “Sorry, Auror-in-Training Tonks.”

“Margot Keller,” she responds, eyes flicking to her hair as it no doubt changes color, and grips Tonks’ hand lightly, “Coroner, basically, and Alfie Pepperwater, last rites and cleansing Healer.”

“Cor,” Tonks says, but doesn't exactly try to smile.

“Trainee, we're leaving!” is barked, a blistering call in such a place. Tonks startles, and starts after Moody who is already at the door. “Keller! I want your report on my desk first thing.”

 

Keller waves a hand. “Of course, Auror Moody.”

 

 

 

  
The doors close behind Tonks, Healer Pepperwater and Coroner Keller both turning away, and she strangely feels relieved.


	7. 1.7

“ _Harry Potter is in danger!_ ”

 

 

 

 

 

Molly makes a trip home around four in the morning, Harry having drifted off to fretful sleep about two hours before. She sets her own simple ward over the curtains before she leaves, something she hadn't… hadn't thought would be needed. Like she shouldn't have known better.

Bloodtraitors, her family. Targets. It's just been so long, she hadn't—

Molly sighs.

The Burrow is still and quiet, and exhaustion dogs at her bones, but she tells herself to get a shower in, then some food and a small cup of tea and pepper-up before she goes back. Molly thinks she manages the bath without waking anyone, but Percy is sitting at the kitchen table when she comes back down, the early morning paper spread in front of him on the table.

 _St. Mungo’s attacked! Blood Purist dies in custody after failed kidnapping attempt!_ screams from the headline, and the picture below it is of the mass of ropes being floated by whoever took the picture. In the corner, Molly can see her own face for a brief second before it starts over.

 

_Damn vultures!_

 

“Is… Is Harry okay?” he asks, and when Molly looks at him, she sees her son, worried out of his mind in exhaustion. “He wasn't hurt was he?”

“Only let your father see that,” she starts, and he nods, fingers crumpling the pages, “but yes, he was hurt, though only a little and he should be right as rain to come back with me today.”

“Oh, good,” he breathes, and gives a shaky exhale. “He’s… He’s a good kid, why does this have to happen to him?”

Molly blinks. That's high praise coming from her stiff as a board son. She rounds the table at this. “Oh, Percy,” she says, and pulls him into a tight hug. “Sometimes things just happen because there's evil in the world, nothing more than that.”

Percy tightens his hold, and nods against her shoulder. It's been a while, this. Percy wants to grow up so fast and so hard, it scares her sometimes, like maybe she's losing him, is going to lose him. But. They're family, and that's all that matters, Charlie and Bill left but they come Home, and Percy will too, all of them.

Harry included.

Molly lets go after a moment, and looks away to let him wipe his face with some of the dignity kids his age seem to need.

“How bout some breakfast, hm?” she offers, figures she'll just make enough to take back, but.

Percy shakes his head. “I'm going back to bed, if it's all the same to you, Mum.”

“Okay, sweet dreams, dear,” she says, watches him go.

 

 

 

_Why would a house elf warn her?_

 

 

 

The tea is done soon enough, gone too soon. She slices up bread to put jam on it, grape and strawberry since she's not sure if Harry likes either, but he should be able to eat it. Molly manages not to wake anyone else, and leaves a note pinned to the bread box for Arthur. Man does love his toast, after all.

She floos back to a bustling lobby, but tries not to let anyone waiting catch her attention. One can see the strangest ailments in St. Mungo's first floor lobby, and usually it can be a nice spot of amusement to see two women locked together by antlers, or a man hiccupping bubbles that pop and sound like birdsong, but not right now. Harry needs her.

Luckily, he's still alone by the time she makes it to the second floor, the other patient still asleep. The ward tells her one healer came in, but that's all.

Molly settles in to wait. For Harry to wake or an Auror to reappear, either or, she'll be ready.

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn't take long.


	8. 1.8

“— _have no right. I doubt_ —”

 

“— _neither here nor_ —”

 

“— _so much as think for a moment_ —”

 

“— _course he can stay until term starts. I have no_ —”

 

“— _going back to, to wherever my sons_ —”

 

“— _insist, Molly. It's the only_ —”

 

“ _We'll see about that_.”

Harry blinks bleary eyed at the wall. Sunlight filters in through the window, though, honestly? It could be charmed for all he knew. With a muffled groan, he stretches, hard, and then sags into the bed with a sigh. He licks his teeth, and makes a disgusted noise at the layer of film. Ugh.

“You awake, m’boy?”

It's like being clubbed over the head, the memories of yesterday, last night, come rushing to the forefront, and Harry bolts up with a gasp. _Run!_

Hitting the floor sends a hot spike of pain up to his shoulder, and he collapses onto his side with a yelp. Harry curls around the throbbing limb, grits his teeth to stave off the tears. _Freak, what'd we say about crying? I'll give you something to really cry about!_

“ _Harry!_ ” cries Mrs. Weasley, and then she's there, trying to help him get up. He fights her for a second, blind with panic, before she wraps him in her arms. “It's just Dumbledore, I promise, Harry, please calm down.”

It could an imposter, how could she tell? What if she felt soft, and—

“Ask me something only I could know, Harry,” Dumbledore says from the other side of the bed, gently, softly.

Not like last night. Not at all. More real, less pressing, demanding.

Something… Something only that the Headmaster would know. Something— “What did you see?” he croaks, licks his lips. “In the Mirror, what did you see?”

Dumbledore chuckles. “Myself, holding a fine pair of woolen socks.”

That's right. And, they'd been the only ones there.

“Headmaster?” he asks, still wary, and let's Mrs. Weasley tug him up, help him back onto the bed. “What… What are you doing here?”

“That's quite the story, I assure you, I've been looking for you for the past three days. Imagine my surprise to find you in a Healing Ward. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Harry looks at Mrs. Weasley, sees the disgruntled expression before she can smooth it into something more neutral. “I'm, I'm not, but I will be, right?” he says, weakly, watches Mrs. Weasley for some sort of cue.  _Why... is he here?_

“It will take a little while, yes, but you will be fine if we follow Healer Mellings and Healer Bak's advice,” she replies, eyes cutting briefly to Dumbledore. “Which includes living in an area with strong ambient magic in the air for at least a full year, no less.”

There's a conversation going on over his head, Harry can tell. “Does… Does that mean I get to stay at the Burrow all the way until third year?” he asks, tentative, and hope flutters under his ribs.

 

A whole year. _Away from the Dursleys._

 

Dumbledore steps closer. “Harry—”

Mrs. Weasley cuts him off. “If you want to,” she says, smiles. “You're welcome in our Home, Harry.”

“Molly, as I explained about the wards—”

“Yes,” Harry interrupts, and a few tears struggle free. He scrunches up his face, lip wobbling. “Yes… Yes, _please._ ”

Mrs. Weasley’s face lights up. “Once Healer Bak drops your potion regimen off, we'll be on our way.”

“Molly—” Dumbledore tries again, but Mrs. Weasley is having none of it.

“We'll talk more about this at a later date, Headmaster,” she bites, unbending to whatever he wants.

Harry flicks his eyes between the two, awed that she'd speak to _Dumbledore_ of all people like this. _Scary,_ he thinks, a real… a real _Mum._

Dumbledore’s glasses flicker in the light. “As you wish, a later date,” he allows, and shifts on his feet. Harry can tell he's unhappy, but actually doesn't right care a lick at the moment. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Harry, but I must be going. Term starts in less than two weeks, after all.”

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles, and.

 

 

 

Then he's gone.

 

 

 

A long moment passes before Mrs. Weasley sighs, and sits on the side of his bed. Harry blinks at her, curious. A whole year. It'll be like a sleepover, right? Not that he's been to any, but. He'll get a sleeping bag next to Ron, maybe, not sleep under the stairs. A step up, no matter what.

“Shouldn't be much longer,” she says into the silence, and brushes back her hair. “Though I can imagine reporters are skulking about in the lobby looking for us. Would it be alright if I put more Chameleon paste over your scar, Harry?”

“More?” he asks, and watches as she pulls a tin out of a side pocket.

“It's why a lot of the healers have been calling you Weasley,” she says, amused, and traces his scar along her own forehead and nose. “I used this paste to cover up the scar, didn't want anyone to come looking for Harry Potter, so I hope you don't mind, I did it while you were asleep.”

He almost wishes he'd heard of it before instead of only just now. People gawk at his scar, especially muggles. He wishes they wouldn't, it's nothing special, nothing special at all. Harry presses at the bridge of his nose, the raised skin of the scar. Breathes. Nods his head, and closes his eyes as the first cool bit is spread over his nose

“Everything’s going to get better, I promise,” Mrs. Weasley says, and for once?

Harry believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is sorta the end of part one (which i will go back and label), and then some middling stuff before term, etc! But here's to about a month?? break!
> 
> Kudos and all comments are welcome! Thanks again!


	9. 1.9

By law, Eun-ju should've report it. By law, she shouldn't have let him leave St. Mungo’s. By law, he's no longer human. By law, she should have alerted the Aurors. By law, by law, by _law—_

By law, she's supposed to report abuse too. But, unofficially, that only happens when the guardians are muggles or muggleborns, and Eun-ju _seethes._

She knows the signs, as any healer worth their salt should know, but she keeps her peace. Britain’s lackluster healer program aside, it had seemed calm, if protective in the face of her probing spells. Tired, so very tired, barely even there. The boy should’ve died, and he would have if not for... if not for...

 

By Queen Baji, she can't even think it.

 

“I hear you have a new case, Bak,” Jones says, his lunch spread out in front of him on a break room table. “Anything interesting?

Eun-ju hums, hiding a grimace, and taps her wand to her cool tea. Steam immediately floats up from the cup, and she takes a sip to stave off answering.

“I don't talk about those in my care,” she says, and when she turns away to pick up her lunch bag, mutters, “unlike you.”

There's a snort from behind her, something noisy being eaten. “Aw, c’mon, loosen up, we all do it,” he cajoles, and waves a pale hand.

 _I doubt that,_ she thinks, and remembers when the Longbottom heir came in after his first bit of accidental magic. It still _infuriates_ her that she'd been so powerless, that all she can do is care for him once a year, dread the day he might come in worse off than she last saw him. Eun-ju curls her fingers tightly around her tea, the heat uncomfortable, but steadying. She's worked in Healing a good time now, and to just watch everything continue to backslide around her, ever since—

A shiver creeps down her spine at the reminder, at what her own family lost. _One day,_ she promises herself, as soon as she musters up enough support, things will improve by leaps and bounds.

“Count me out,” Eun-ju replies, and sits near the window, a table between them.

Jones makes a disgruntled noise, and drops it, thankfully. He's a good blood and disease healer in training, but he's too noisy, gossipy. There's a world of difference from retelling a first floor lobby aliment to telling the whole bloody world whose kids are sick or missing a limb or squibs, who has what disease and if it's contagious. Eun-ju sighs, and tucks into her lunch.

It surprised her and not in equal measure the severity of Harry Potter’s situation. The things wrong with him could fill a meter of parchment, and it's the worst case she's ever had. It's… It's a miracle he even made it through a year at Hogwarts, surrounded by an untold score of germs and other children's magic. He's in for a long haul, two or three years if he's lucky, the rest of his life if not. Molly Weasley looks like she'll be Merlin-sent, in that regard. Eun-ju will have to tell her soon, though, because once he builds back up his strength, so will… so will it.

Eun-ju frowns, thinking. If she wasn't mistaken, the last case was in America. At least, the last public case. She'd not been old enough to really care, just a little girl at that point, and then more concerned with the muggle North being goaded by Grinderwald’s leftover desperate fanatics in the muggle Soviet Union, and then the muggle United Nation’s bombs. Forty years now since she left, fifty since the Death Eater attack on the Healing Hands that took her only sister. She… has to be discreet, but this is all so far above her pay grade. The man's too famous to care for a letter from an old bird like her, right?

“—ou listening?”

Oh. She blinks, and looks up from her lunch. Jersey’s standing there, red robes absent, and an amused smile on her face. Eun-ju looks around to find that Jones is gone, and that Keller, Jaggernauth, and Turpin are sequestered closer to the door, peering at them curiously for a moment before looking away.

“Lost in thought there, eh?” she teases, teeth stark against her dark skin, and shifts the satchel hanging off her shoulder.

With a sheepish smile, Eun-ju shrugs. “Just thinking about my new kid,” she admits, because Jersey knows who he really is. Had to know with the list of things that could have gone wrong Vanishing the rib fragment, and Oathed to privacy. “I'll be seeing him again in a couple of months, but I worry.”

“Understandable,” the younger woman agrees, “his bones were about as fragile as a bird's, more so really.”

Eun-ju grimaces. “Hopefully with good food and rich air that won't be a problem by Christmas.”

Jersey nods, and then makes a noise. “Oh, right, there are some Aurors out in the lobby,” she says, and Eun-ju blinks at her. “It's about your new kid, they want to talk to us.”

Huh. “They're going to…” and she falters.

Investigate. She's had a few of those since new management, and none of the kids ever really trusted her again, after. Got new healers, ones who would have kept quiet, left them be. But. A couple have come back, thanked her. It makes it worth it for every glare a small and trembling child has given her for ‘tattling,’ maybe even sending them somewhere worse.

 _I only had a year left, if you'd only_ —

 

 _I was fine, and now_ —

 

_I hate you!_

 

 _How could you do this to me_ —

 

Harry’s going to be fine, though.

“Yeah,” Jersey says, somber. “Hope it all works out.” 

Eun-ju gives a vague nod. _Alright then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! life is kicking my ass, so ehhh on updating soon. Kudos to anyone who knows what Eun-ju is talking about :3c
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome!


End file.
